Silverite
by Bazylia de Grean
Summary: Duncan is not ready to admit it yet, but he is beginning to understand what being a Warden means and, to his own terror, is beginning to accept what comes with it, and that is what keeps him from sleep at night rather than darkspawn dreams. [Duncan's life from where 'The Calling' left off up to the beginnings of the Fifth Blight.]


_Major spoilers for _The Calling_._

_Borrowing Bioware's _Dragon Age_ playground. Duncan and all other canon characters belong to their writers and Bioware. All other characters belong to me, as do some interpretations of vaguely defined canon characters and events._

_Duncan seems a simple character at first: duty, period. But when you look closer, he is wonderfully complex. How did it happen that a cutpurse and a street rat became a Commander of the Grey, and the kind of man Duncan is when we meet him in DAO? I thought this question deserved a proper answer..._

_There might be some minor canon divergences (e.g. regarding Polara), but if a piece of lore comes from a codex entry tied to a DLC... I am sorry, but I can't consider that canon._

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The royal palace in Denerim is cold as ever, just as Duncan remembers it has been for the first time. Despite having spent so many months in Ferelden, cold is something he is not used to yet. A lost mabari pup – king Maric allows them to roam the palace, to teyrn Loghain's annoyance – bumps into his shin, and Duncan gently shoves the little hound aside. Mabari are one of the elements of Ferelden he has got used to, has even grown fond of.

His boots make no noise as he slowly walks to and fro along the hall, waiting. The Wardens have arrived, at last, the new Commander among them, and they are talking with the king. Duncan, for some reason, was not invited to the meeting. He feels a little offended by that, but he is waiting, not quite as patiently as he would like, for the meeting to end. Not that he has much choice in the matter. He just keeps wondering why the meeting takes so long... Maybe they are discussing Genevieve's expedition, her last one.

He had been called to Weisshaupt with Fiona, to report on what had happened, but then he was sent back to Ferelden, again with Fiona. After she left, he has spent most of the year in the royal palace, waiting. Despite Maric's consent, Weisshaupt was is no hurry to send just any Wardens here. The situation was – and still is – delicate, especially after that quest Genevieve had lead them on, and it is obvious enough even for Duncan – who considers himself many things, smart among them, but not politically savvy – it is obvious enough even for him to understand. And so for months, when the First Warden in Weisshaupt has been thinking the matter over and carefully choosing the Wardens to go to Ferelden, Duncan has been waiting. He has spent some time in Redcliffe, at Arl Eamon's invitation, keeping an eye on Alistair, but he has spent most of those months in Denerim, sneaking around the palace like a ghost.

There is a friendship of sorts – though friendship might be too great a word to describe it – between him and Maric, but Maric has a kingdom to rule. And there is Loghain, who has saved the day back then in Kinloch Hold, and even though he is polite in a peculiar, gruff and slightly icy way, he never lets Duncan forget in what danger the Wardens have put king Maric, and what could have been the costs.

So Duncan has been left to his own devices for most of the time, alone in the small part of the palace temporarily given to the Wardens, practicing with his daggers or, rarely, searching the library of Chantry scholars and historians for Warden lore. Usually, he was just bored, just as he is now.

But something had changed in him back in Kul-Baras and in Kinloch Hold, something had changed in him that will never change back. Duncan is not ready to admit it yet, but he is beginning to understand what being a Warden means and, to his own terror, is beginning to accept what comes with it, and that is what keeps him from sleep at night rather than darkspawn dreams.

That, and the memories of the Wardens who had died during that ill-fated quest. Duncan has a few skills and knows many things, but he does not quite know how to handle grief. Especially when so many conflicting emotions come with it.

There is a quiet creak as the door opens suddenly. Two men leave the chamber and walk into the hall, both clad in greys and blues of Grey Wardens. One of them is an elderly, silver-haired mage, looking shockingly frail despite being tall. The other is a warrior with two swords strapped at his back, with dark hair and shortly-cropped beard. Duncan stares at him a little, because the man is more kingly than Cailan, his bearing more noble than even Loghain's or Arl Eamon's, and he is radiating an aura of quiet confidence so strong that Duncan has to admire him, however grudgingly.

The warrior notices his interest and nods at Duncan, silently commanding him to join them. With some apprehension, Duncan obeys, and walks towards the two strangers slowly, wishing he could move with such ease as this man, but knowing he fails at this quite miserably. There is some softness and fluidity to his own moves, not unlike that of a cat – and that is how he learned it, by watching cats sneaking by in dark alleys – but he is used to stealth rather than walking tall down the halls of a palace, and it shows.

"Are you the Commander?" Duncan asks, glancing at the haughty warrior.

"I am," speaks a low female voice. Another stranger has just entered the hall; she is tall, dark-haired and fair skinned, and seems tough like Anderfels weather, her eyes pale and cold like the glint of a blade. There are strange marks on her face, like pale grey scars, forming complicated patterns of short little lines on her cheeks. "You can call me Polara." She walks as if she owns the place, in heavy steps, her armour clinking.

Duncan thinks that her mere presence commands respect... though maybe it has something to do with the great battleaxe she carries strapped to her back. But her confidence is somewhat like Genevieve's was: she is a military commander, not a born leader.

Polara eyes him, a spark of interest in her eyes. "And you must be Duncan."

"Yes."

Her gaze changes, and he can no longer read it, and neither can he read her face.

"There are strangest tales told of what transpired in Ferelden last year," Polara remarks casually.

"I explained everything in Weisshaput, more than once. And Fiona reported, too."

"I'm not interested in reports. I want to hear what happened, and hear it from you."

"It's some kind of a test, isn't it?" As he has learned the hard way with Genevieve, the Wardens' motivation can be much too complicated to his liking.

"Perhaps."

But Duncan is not in a mood to go over that yet again. "You've had all the expertise the Grey have to offer, you could have consulted mages, you could have searched in the Warden lore. You probably know better than me what happened... Commander," he adds grudgingly, after a slight pause. "All I know for certain is that the others died, and I have become a Warden."

Something flashes briefly in Polara's eyes. "And interesting answer... Duncan of the Grey," she says levelly. "And the correct one, in the first part. As for the last, it's a talk for some other time." She shifts, the plates of her heavy armour screeching slightly as metal scrapes against metal as she turns towards the warrior. "Erwann, if you please..." She waits for him to nod agreement and turns back to Duncan. "Now show me how you fight," she commands, and that is too much.

"You doubt me?"Duncan asks in bitter disbelief. "I've been to the Deep Roads, I've... You know what happened, and still you doubt me?"

Pale eyes watch him with interest. "Fighting darkspawn is easy," Polara says, and Duncan remembers she is from Anderfels, where it is different, where darkspawn are a constant threat. "I didn't say I doubt your skills as a Warden," she adds and, to Duncan's surprise, smiles at him briefly. "But I sincerely doubt your skills to become Commander of the Grey in a few years. Not in Ferelden, not at this time. There is much you have to learn." Her voice is a little warmer now, a little more friendly, but still firm. "Now, show me how you fight."

This time, Duncan complies. He fights against Erwann, his daggers against the warrior's swords. It is not a fight Duncan expects to win; he is good enough to know there are many better-skilled that him, because in fighting youth and speed are not always enough to win against strength and experience, so Duncan only hopes to fail at the task gracefully. Erwann wins, of course, but Polara seems pleased with what she saw.

"Excellent. You will train with Erwann, from now on." She turns to the mage. "Your turn, Reuel."

"Maybe we could move somewhere nearer to the kitchen?" the mage suggests.

Polara nods with a smile, and Erwann chuckles quietly. They need no showing around, so someone – Maric? – must have already filled them in on the layout of their temporary quarters. Polara sends Duncan and Reuel to the small chamber meant to be the Commander's office, while she and Erwann go to the kitchen. Duncan has to admit he envies them a little.

The mage gestures at Duncan to sit, and then proceeds to ask him countless questions on politics and history and the Wardens...

"Was she serious?" Duncan asks suddenly, when he notices there is no indication the questions are going to end soon. He is already tired, but still curious. "About making me Commander?"

Reuel smiles indulgently. "Yes."

"But I..."

"Oh, I know everything. News travel fast from Montsimmard to Jader. Polara knows, too, as do the others." Reuel pauses and looks at Duncan thoughtfully. "We do not judge. You've faced your judgement already." Another pause. "You see, lad, we have a difficult task ahead of us. People here are wary of the Wardens. Our order has been absent for many years, and memory is short... Our political situation, so to speak, is rather delicate right now..."

"Delicate?" Polara snorts, returning with a pitcher of water and three full jugs on a tray. She sets everything on the table and then watches with mild amusement as Duncan gulps down a cup and immediately pours himself another. "Ever seen someone walking on a rope?"

Duncan nods.

"It's similar to our situation in Ferelden right now. Except our rope is tied over a precipice in the Frostback Mountains. And we have to walk the rope clad in full armour."

"A little too colourful, but otherwise accurate," Reuel comments. "We need to be careful."

"I'm just a military leader," Polara says. "I can fight. I can't do politics; that what Reuel's here for. But you, Duncan, will have to learn how to that, because one day you'll have to do it on your own."

Reuel smiles. "Don't worry, we'll make a fine Commander out of him."

"Fine is not enough. Make him into a little Rivaini prince, or whatever is it they have instead."

Duncan is not certain whether he should feel annoyed, angry or flattered. He feels all three now, and it is confusing like the Fade.

"Do I even have a say in this?" he asks, not wanting to give up too easily. Maybe also because he has no idea what to think of it, and needs time to decide on that.

"Of course." Polara's pale eyes turn to him, but they betray nothing. "But after what you've been through in the Deep Roads and after, and because of all you've been through before all that, and most of all because what you have said earlier, I expect that your answer will be yes."

"You have a say." Reuel's glance is sharp. "But we have no choice. King Maric thinks of you as a friend, and that in an advantage none of us has. And you are half-Fereldan..."

"But Rivaini in appearance."

"Still, definitely not Orlesian. So no, lad, there is no choice in this. You have the king's trust, and he considers you a friend, the same king who has fought to free Ferelden, Maric, son of Moira the Rebel Queen. If anyone can gain the trust of the people of Ferelden, it is you."

Duncan says nothing. His relationship with the Wardens as such is still awkward, complicated at best, but he cannot just say no to it all, because the other Wardens would look at him in contempt. He has already been there once, and he is not eager to ever repeat that.

"Perhaps you don't have a choice what to do," Polara says, her voice a little softer, but a strange sharp look to her eyes. "But you have a choice how to take it. You always have the choice of how to take it."


End file.
